


A Protective Lot

by FeoplePeel



Series: Champion's Coffer [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood Friends, Gen, Gift Fic, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Solas Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Islen left Skyhold, another danger forces her out of Kirkwall and away from her family.</p><p>Happy birthday, Wren! And happy anniversary, Champion's Coffer!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Protective Lot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wren/gifts).



**ISLEN**

Islen turned ten in Rivain.

They docked on a balmy day. Aunt Isabela took her to a high-roofed tavern and let her try a spiced drink that made her eyes water. She was out in time to see the lamps lit up with a type of powder she'd never encountered, even at Skyhold. They went back to the ship before day broke. They were _always_ on the ship now.

Islen turned ten without her mother and father.

 _Well,_ she eyed Fenris, who stood only a few feet away on the main deck of the _Siren's Call_ , gaze tracking each person who walked the docks, _I suppose that isn't technically true._

They hadn't spoken about _that_ since she turned seven and he'd given her a travel pack to replace the one she had lost on the long ride to Haven the year past. She wondered what he thought of her sometimes, but never asked.

Now she only wondered where they were going, her curiosity focused on why she was only allowed out at night.

 _You know why._ Her Second Thoughts chided.

Papa and Mama were being careful, even with her. Uncle Anders wrote all of her letters for her now, and she knew he wrote them wrong sometimes. Coding, he called it. Rubbish. She knew coding. Papa taught her. This was _censorship_ (which was a word Anders taught her). Still, pouting was the best (and only) weapon she had against her uncle's pen. She wasn't allowed to write to her friends, even for their namedays, and her letters were read to her out loud. Sera managed to sneak her a few, but the Red Jennies had always been resourceful.

At least she was allowed to go with Isabela when she needed to trade. Sometimes she would sneak away, though Islen suspected Isabela allowed this (the woman ran a tight ship and all the tricks Islen normally got up to at home never worked on her). Uncle Fenris normally found her close by. Rivain was still strange and the Qunari were not like the Iron Bull.

Islen closed her eyes, turned her face to the sky and wished herself to Kirkwall. When she peeked through the lids of her eyes, she was still on the ship.

They stayed docked in Rivain for what felt like months. It was probably only a few weeks. Isabela always left a place before they drew attention, which she did on a fairly regular basis. If she didn't, Fenris or Anders inevitably would.

There was no breeze on the day she finally left the belly of the _Siren's Call_.

The only reason Islen remembered this detail, at all, was the stillness of the sails and how out of place it looked with the business on the deck.

She was familiar with the crew by now, and knew to stay out of their way during cast off. It took a few moments to find one of her family, tugging on Fenris' sleeve to get his attention.

"We're leaving, now?"

"Yes." Fenris looked at her. He sounded a little lost. "Yes. We're leaving."

She stared across the deck, to where his gaze had been. Isabela and Anders were glaring at each other and another man she had never seen before seemed to be egging them on with a laugh. He was an elf, darker than Fenris. His hands rested on a pair of blades at his hip. Islen stared at the metal with open curiosity.

 _He's here to take you._ The thought snuck up on her like a bite to the ankle, quickly followed by, _How do you know?_

"Kitten?" Islen jumped. Isabela had gotten closer without her realising. "Follow me, there's someone I want you to talk to."

The elf's grin seemed to stretch for miles, and he never stopped smiling even when Islen raised an eyebrow at him. If anything his _widened_.

"This is Zevran." Isabela motioned to him. "Do you remember him?"

 _Emery’s uncle. Guardian to the Warden. The man who helped smuggle Aunt Bethany out of Kirkwall. Antivan Crow._ She listed off in her head.

It had been a short year of hiding under Papa's desk as he acted as Viscount to Kirkwall but she had spent many more around a game of Wicked Grace. In her head, Papa said, _Don't show your hand, kid._

"No," she lied and, before either could speak, "do your daggers have names?"

"Self-important people name their weapons. I once killed a man with a sword called _Indomitable_."

Islen considered telling him about her Papa, who had named his own crossbow, but thought better of it. Whether or not it was true, 'self-important' didn't seem like a thing you wanted to be.

“We’re going into town.” Isabela said, drawing her attention back. “I'm sure you want to come. See the sights.”

Islen looked towards the buildings. “During the day?” On her shoulders, Fenris’ grip tightened.

“Today's special.”

* * *

Anders packed her a bag. _In case she found something she liked,_ he claimed.

“Why is everyone lying to me?” Islen asked, when he said nothing else. “I'm not stupid.”

“No one thinks you're stupid.” Anders laughed through his nose.

She crossed the room, pushing his hands out of the way and sticking out her chin. “You have your own bag to pack”

“Islen…”

She heard it in her name. _Goodbye. She’s too young, she won’t understand._

But goodbyes came easy to Islen, now. She knew how to cut them off at the head.

“You're not coming.” She felt her jaw tighten. “Uncle Fenris? Anyone?”

“It's very important that no one knows where you're going, Islen.” Anders bent to tie a scarf around her neck. She hadn’t seen herself in a mirror in some time, but she knew it made her look like Aunt Bethany. Darker, and her hair kept much shorter for the tangles, but the face was the same.

“Will you know?” She straightened the garment, tucking her ring behind it and out of sight.

“Yes.” He looked uncomfortable. “Well, Isabela will. That has to be enough for now.”

 _Must have been why they were fighting_. She thought. Aloud she asked, “How do I look? Ready for adventure?"

* * *

She and Fenris took a path she hadn’t walked through town, before. Or maybe it seemed new in the light of day. Whatever the case, the street was unfamiliar to her and she let her uncle lead her, by the hand, to the edge of town and into the the surrounding marshland.

Anders had stayed on the ship, watching her from the deck until she turned a corner on the docks. She said a quiet goodbye to Isabela before they lost her in the bazaar. It all happened so quickly and with such small fanfare, that her departing didn't seem to be happening at all. As she saw Zevran’s back disappear into the crowd, she felt a prick of hope bleed out in her chest. Maybe Anders was wrong. Fenris was taking a route only he knew, back to Kirkwall and her parents. Back home.

But the thought was brief, snuffed out when she spotted Zevran ahead of them, and without Isabela. She shifted her pack up further on her shoulder and tried not to look intimidated. Whoever he was, Isabela trusted him. Fenris did, too. Enough to _deliver_ her.

“It’s to look like a kidnapping.” Fenris said, slowing before they reached him. She took a slightly shaky breath, the word _kidnapping_ bringing recent and unpleasant memories to the surface of her mind. By the look on Fenris’ face, his thoughts had taken a similar turn. “But we’ll know how to find you, if something...happens.”

“What if I need to find you?” Islen stared at their joined fingers.

“Don’t use your Sight unless it’s an emergency.” Fenris said by way of answer. Islen nodded. Anders had told her as much before she had left the ship.

“What about the other thing?” She wiggled the fingers of her free hand.

“Just try not to get stuck in any walls.” He sighed, though he looked to be fighting a smile. He stood straighter, and dropped her hand, when they reached the other elf. “If any harm should come to her, Crow.”

“I’ve heard a variety of creative threats with regards to my person, this day.” Zevran held up his hands. Now that she could hear him more clearly, he did sound like Josephine. “But do go on, I love an encore.”

The two stared at each other, Fenris glaring and Zevran smirking, until Islen took a step towards Zevran.

“When can I know where we’re going?” She asked, airily.“It’s not back to Kirkwall, I suppose.”

He chuckled. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

* * *

Islen started awake. She didn't remember the details of her nightmare, but she remembered Aunt Bethany’s voice, which meant it was _that_ one again. She sat up and her muscles twinged. Best to find somewhere more comfortable before trying to fall back asleep, in any case.

“Nightmares?”

Islen hadn't forgotten someone was just across the clearing from her (she reasoned _some_ adult had to be), she had just temporarily forgotten that someone was Zevran. When she saw him, she was momentarily confused.

“What?”

“Nightmares.” He repeated, likely louder now that he knew she was awake. “Do you have them often or is there something in the forest that frightens you?”

She joined him by the small fire, bringing her pack with her. “This is barely a forest.” The trees were impressive, once they were out of the marsh, but the ground was still moist and entirely water in some places. By Islen's reckoning that made it more a swamp.

"With all the dirt clinging to your very fine clothes, I had you pegged for a more wild sort.” She must have been making some face, or otherwise seemed less comfortable in the wetlands than he expected.

“I like playing in the mud, not living in it.”

“Fastidious at heart.”

She wished he wouldn't speak to her. She was cold and her breeches were soaked through from the waterlogged bark she was using as a seat.

To her delight, he didn't speak for a while, even leaving at one point to get firewood. She walked in the other direction to gather a few pieces that looked dry enough to catch. There was a log too, this one much more dry, that she dragged back to replace her seat, kicking the wet one aside with some amount of squelchy satisfaction.

“Emery has nightmares.” Zevran said, too casually, as he sat back down. Islen watched him poke the fire with one of his smaller twigs and said nothing.

Her nightmares weren't always the same. Sometimes it was the banal, of which she was sure every child in Thedas had dreams about; Darkspawn and dragons or her body stuck between the walls of her house. For a while, they featured Kieran’s grandmother and Merrill. Sometimes Kieran, himself. She always wrote to Kieran after those particular upsets, even if she had only just sent a letter.

Lately they had been about...that place.

She wanted to know if Emery was okay. She almost asked...but what if she was just having the normal nightmares? What if he was lying to trick her? Best not to risk it.

She'd write to Emery, herself, soon. She'd remember to ask if she'd been sleeping well.

* * *

“Your mother, a Champion, your father, a Viscount. Your aunt, _the_ Inquisitor of Thedas. That’s quite an arsenal.” Zevran pulled off a piece of rabbit for himself. “Are you allowed to play or do you have to go to parties with the rest of the nobles?”

They’d been travelling for a week now. Their conversations were scattered, but they always started similarly.

_You’ve spied on a lot of people._

_That pack’s a very interesting present for a little rich girl._

_Tattoos seem like they hurt an awful lot._

_I met your mother, once. And your aunt._

They weren’t exactly questions, nor did they always start a conversation. Sometimes one would trip into something that left the other miffed or sullen for hours. Islen was good at figuring out when adults wanted her to talk more or less (and generally did just the opposite) but she seemed to annoy Zevran in a way that left him more upset with himself. For once, she wasn’t trying to.

Perhaps children made him nervous. Maybe it was just her.

Now, he looked at her as though expecting a response. Islen delicately picked at her rabbit leg. “You shouldn’t ask a question when another person is trying to eat.”

Zevran laughed, mouth wide open, and Islen felt her lips pucker. Her parents had always teased her about her impeccable table manners. After she finished her food and washed her hands on their shared cloth (she had manners, but the outdoors were the outdoors and one did what one must), he repeated his question.

“Papa’s office is in the Hanged Man, near the docks. I know all the warehouses.” She straightened with a nod. “I mostly play with the kids at the vhenadahl. That’s outside.”

“In the Alienage.”

“We don’t call it that anymore. Alienage means ‘for outsiders’. It’s been,” she felt her eyebrows draw together, remembering Papa’s speech (though, admittedly Aveline and Merrill had done most of the speaking), “assimilated into the lower town now.”

“Hm. A popular decision, I’m certain.”

“Elves don’t do too bad for themselves, in Kirkwall.” Islen scratched her nose. “Well, Papa says. There’s a few Qunari who stayed after the others left. Loads of people in Kirkwall hate the Qunari, after the invasion. Their kids get in all sorts of tussles.”

“That sort of fear stays with people.”

“Papa says everyone can just move to Starkhaven if they’re so scared. Prince Vael doesn’t let anyone in who isn’t human-shaped or loaded with coin.”

“He told you all that?” She lifted a shoulder. Papa may not have told _her_ , specifically, but he had said it and that was the important bit. “Do you miss them?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Awfully.” She didn’t feel a need to lie about this. They were her parents. Of course she missed them. “Do you have any children?” He laughed, again. Islen noticed he did that a lot. Sometimes his laugh didn’t sound like a laugh at all. “That’s funny?”

“To most who know me, yes.” He nodded.

“I don’t know you.” She pointed out. “Did you grow up in an Alienage?”

“I was with the Crows, mostly.” He sounded a little bored, and pulled out one of his daggers. “It doesn’t stop the name-calling, completely, but you don’t really consider yourself...human or elf. Assassin, Master, Talon.” With each word, he flipped his blade, catching it at the handle. “Rank is more important.”

“What are you?”

“Not my crowd, anymore. I am loyal to one woman. Derry Aeducan.” He winked. “You’ve heard the name, I assume.”

That was his go-to trick when he really wanted her to talk to him. Bring her out a little more. Mention Emery. He’d never said anything about her mother before, or how he fit in with her family.

“Everyone knows the Warden.” She mumbled.

“What about you?” He asked, when she offered nothing else.

“What do you mean?”

“Your father wasn’t always a Viscount. You spend a fair amount of time in the Alienage.” He rested his dagger on his knee. “Born in Lowtown?”

“I was born in my house.” She wrinkled her nose. In truth she couldn’t remember not living in Hightown, even with its _many_ faults. “It’s right across from the Merchant’s Guild. Sometimes Papa lets me sit in on meetings and, oh boy, does that make the kalnas mad as dragonfire! I’m only half-dwarf, you see? But they can’t stop him because he’s a kalna, too, _and_ the first dwarf Viscount Kirkwall’s ever had!”

“You don’t consider yourself an elf?”

The question took Islen off-guard and she found herself pulling her shoulders in, self-consciously. She had hit her first growth spurt this year. Her parents assured her was perfectly normal, particularly for a family as...vertically gifted as the Hawkes.

She _hated_ it. 

“Your eyes glow, just that little bit. Doesn’t happen with most elf-blooded, or even dwarves. It happened with Emery, from her mom. All that time she spent hiding out in caves, I’ll bet.”

“I’m a dwarf.” She swallowed. “Like Emmy.”

He ignored her. “Yours is _probably_ the lyrium. From your father? The scowly one who dropped you off?”

“I’m a dwarf.” She said, more firmly. “Like my Papa.”

“All right.” He laughed, then leaned back and stared at her for a long time, content to wait for her to speak.

“Have you spoken to Emmy?” She finally asked, quietly.

“Not recently.” He closed his eyes. “But a few months ago, she was well. Morrigan’s boy, too.”

“Good.” Islen let out a breath. “That’s good.”

* * *

They travelled for days without seeing a town. The first settlement they reached was comprised of a few houses, scorched on the outside and empty inside.

“Qunari raids.” Zevran ran a hand down one of the walls. “Looks like no one came back to nest.”

“Can we sleep inside tonight?” She asked, already setting her pack down behind the door. He nodded, moving back outside. Islen took the chance to run over to the bed and sit on it, warily. When it didn’t break under her weight she relaxed a little more.

Islen pulled her pack up and emptied its contents beside her. She hadn’t been allowed to take anything identifying, though she was allowed one of her toys, an old dragon from home. She had a few outfits, bread, and some wrapped cheese that should stay good for another week at least. Tucked between all that was parchment, the old kind, not mass-produced by the Guild with her Papa or Mama’s heraldry. Writing in the marsh had seemed impossible. Now, she looked around the room for a desk, or some similar surface, and found most of the furniture had collapsed or burned completely. She kept the paper inside for now.

She knew Emery travelled like this all the time. Delegations and visits to relatives were the extent of Islen’s travels, now. She didn’t understand how anyone could pick up their whole life and carry it with them from place to place. It seemed exhausting.

 _At least you can go home. Sometime._ The thought poked at the back of her mind. No one had come back, Zevran had said. Islen looked around, again. Someone had lived here, once. She shuddered as a chill ran through her.

_Don’t think about it. Stick to the plan._

“Can you tell me where we’re going now?” She asked when Zevran was back inside and setting out his own things.

“No.” Then, after a moment. “I can tell you we’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” She repeated with a nod. _Stick to the plan._

Not everyone else’s, of course. Certainly not her parents. It had been a setback, being traded off to someone else who was less likely to tell her where she was at than Aunt Isabela. But she could work with what she had. No one suspected her, after all. She was _only_ ten, as they were all so keen on saying.

 _Well_ , she thought, curling into her blanket, _ten or not, I’m going home._

She tried to remember the last map she had seen. The trade routes she knew through Rivain and Antiva. In the end, she went to sleep and dreamt of cattle pulling a stream of water behind them.

* * *

It was a Circle.

Or it had been, anyway. Now it was a settlement, with tents working as makeshift shelters. There were many children, like herself, and she could see mages littered among the crowd.

Still, in the middle of it all, was the tall tower of the Circle.

Zevran took her straight to one of the food lines. They fed themselves and he led her behind the benches, past the small woman at the pans, and to a tent. Outside was the only Qunari Islen could see in the whole of the settlement. He had no horns, and was smaller than the Iron Bull, but the red on his shoulders and the style of his hair brought to mind the paintings in the City Hall of her mother and the Qunari Arishok. The duel that had made Marian Hawke Champion of Kirkwall.

Islen stared at him, warily, but he was paying her no attention as far as she could tell.

“Sten! How are you on this most lovely day, my friend?”

“My men are settled ten miles, northeast. We’ve sent the call to gather from the shore.”

“We noticed a distinct lack of Qunari this side of Rivain.” Zevran slapped his shoulder. “Good job, Arishok.”

Islen stilled. Arishok. No wonder he looked familiar.

“If you’re to use my title disrespectfully, call me by the name you prefer, elf.” Sten cut him a hard look. “Today, I guard the South gate. No one signaled your approach.”

“Nice to hear I’m not losing my touch.”

“Had it been another…”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” Zevran held up his hands. “Could you watch this one for me?” He patted Islen’s back, pushing her forward in the process.

“You’re _leaving_ me?” Islen reeled. “What kind of escort dumps their charge with a stranger?”

“The kind who tires of being an escort.” He said, in a more genial tone than the words merited. “Fear not, my little friend, I’ll be back before nightfall.”

“She won’t be useful.” Sten shook his head. Islen wanted to argue about how useful she actually was, but realised it could get her stuck with him! The _Arishok_ ...and, _still_ , he hadn’t looked at her.

“I know you let the princess help you when her father isn’t looking.” Zevran stepped closer. Sten grunted. “Besides, she can walk through walls.”

Sten made some noise through his teeth, but he _did_ finally look at her. “Fine.”

“Thank you, friend.” Zevran smiled. “I will only be a little while. Give her some work, keep her busy.” He bent down kissing both of her cheeks. Islen felt her face heat in surprise more than embarrassment. “And you, stay out of trouble while I’m not there to witness it.”

* * *

Sten didn’t speak to her, except to say, “Follow.” Now they stood in one of the high, wood towers that looked over the marsh and trees Islen had travelled in from. Silent.

It was something Islen thought she would appreciate after so much time with Zevran’s chattiness. But she had questions, now. And they were just standing there!

“I’m Islen Tethras.” She tried. Sten merely nodded.

She wasn’t always Islen Tethras. Depending on who she needed to impress, sometimes she was Islen Hawke or Islen Tethras-Hawke, or The Honorable Miss Islen Hawke-Tethras. She had, at one point, called herself a Lady and received a long and mind-numbing lesson in etiquette from Josie in her subsequent letter. She wasn’t sure anything would impress this particular Qunari, but she was certain that if he _was_ the Arishok her mother had killed, somehow back from the dead (and Islen had witnessed things more strange), that the name ‘Hawke’ wouldn’t win her any favours.

“Are you the Arishok who fought the Champion of Kirkwall in the Free Marches?”

“Kitshok.” He shook his head. “I am not that Arishok.”

Islen let out a breath.

“Arishok is a title, like Warden or Champion.” He continued speaking and she jumped a little at the sound of his low voice.

“Or Viscount?”

Sten nodded. “A few years after the attack, when I was first appointed, the Ariqun and the Arigena denounced the previous Arishok’s actions at the city of Kon-aar.”

Islen nodded, hoping she didn’t look as lost as she felt. Sten sighed.

“Our government said the Qunari who used to be Arishok was not working under the Qun’s authority and should not have invaded Kirkwall. Had he come back to Par Vollen, he would have been court-martialed and,” his eyes flicked to her, briefly, “handled.”

“He wasn’t very nice.” She hummed. She considered carefully before continuing. “My Mama is the Champion of Kirkwall, you know.”

“Of course I do.” Sten’s lip curled, seemingly more offended at her implication than relation. “We’ve been expecting you for some time.”

“Well, no one bothered to tell me where I was going.” She huffed, crossing her arms.

“You lack patience.” He turned and opened the door to the tower gate, motioning for her to climb down the ladder. “We’ve known about you since the Crossroads.”

 Islen paused, hands and feet on the first few rungs, staring up at Sten guiltily. “It isn’t Aunt Bethany’s fault.”

 “Obviously. We were there.”

 She nodded. She remembered.

 “The elf will not succeed.” He knelt, holding one side of the ladder near her hand. “He will answer for his crimes.”

 Islen climbed down the ladder slowly, hoping her shaking wouldn’t throw her off.

* * *

It was evening and Zevran still hadn’t returned. Sten took her back to the food tent and looked as though he was considering leaving her there. She supposed duty won out in the end, bless the Qun, and he sat and ate silently beside her.

 She could see the fires being lit outside when they stood to leave. They were placing their plates behind a growing stack of pans when she heard her name called. Sten held the flap open for her and she darted underneath his arm and straight into another body.

“Islen?”

 Islen was bent over double from the impact, but she knew, immediately, it wasn’t Zevran’s voice. When she stood, she caught sight of who she had actually run into.

“Islen, it’s me!” Emery Theirin smiled at her in the middle of a temporary settlement surrounding a Circle in Rivain. “Remember?”

She had grown only a few inches, but her hair was longer, brighter, and in two perfect plaits down each shoulder. Her baby fat had fallen away but her face was still delightfully round and sprinkled with freckles. It was the most beautiful thing Islen had seen in weeks and, as though she had finally been given permission, she hugged her friend tightly and began to cry.

“I remember you.”

 

**EMERY**

Emery watched the Qunari quartermaster work with her chin in her hands. He never seemed fazed by the attention, and would sometimes drop her bits of knowledge about sword work. Today, Sten was in the tent with them, checking supplies. Emery thought he looked quite regal.

“A proper shield can be used to parry and attack.” Sten handed her a wooden shield from the training pile. “Here, child. This is about your breast size.”

She flipped it around and stared at it. The Inquisition’s symbol, which had clearly been there at one point, was faded from use. She flipped it back, thrusting it out to hit Sten’s stomach. “Attack!”

The tent went quiet as the Quartermaster stilled, his eyes darting up.

“Good.” Sten nodded. The Quartermaster went back to his work. Emery blinked, feeling as though she had missed something. Before she could ask, one of the two Qunari she actually knew by name, Midlath, came into the tent.

“Arishok,” she nodded, “you’ve a visitor. The elf, Zevran.”

“Venak hol…” Sten rubbed at the space between his eyes. “Show him in.”

“Gratitude.” Zevran winked at Midlath as he entered. She stared at him, arms crossed. After a moment of unresponsiveness, he turned to Emery. “And hello, Princess! I thought I heard your beautiful voice!”

Emery copied Midlath’s expression, though she didn’t succeed at maintaining it if the smile on his face was anything to go by, and in a moment was scooped up into a hug. “Hello, Uncle Zevran.”

“State your business, elf.” Sten said, behind them.

“I’ve just come to steal this little one. I’m sure I could find Derry on my own, but it’s always an adventure with Emmy.” He ruffled her hair and she quickly checked that her plaits were still in place. “After that, you may want to head over to the Circle for a sit-down.”

Sten raised an eyebrow.

“Morrigan’s just arrived.”

* * *

 Emery led her uncle by the hand. It wasn’t hard to find Mama these days. She just followed the loudest voice.

“All right, everyone, single file now!” Mama cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. She was at the food tent closest to the Circle and stood on a bench for extra height.

“They have the illustrious Warden Aeducan working the kitchen line?” Zevran tsked, but he was smiling.

Mama rested her hands on his shoulders and he swung her down. “Everyone does their part, Zevran.”

“Mama, you’re loud.” Emery covered her ears with a wince.

“That way I’ll never get lost.” Mama bent over to pull at her fingers until she giggled and dropped her hands.

“Zevran!” Papa came around the other side of the line, sweaty under his apron. He pulled Zevran into a hug. Zevran shot Mama a look over Papa's shoulder and she coloured slightly. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” 

“And you, my friend. Particularly in such...alluring attire.” Zevran pulled away, raising an eyebrow, and Papa, too, turned pink. “Alas, I’m afraid we’ve little time for play. There’s a sticky situation of a different sort at the main gate.”

“Morrigan?” Mama sighed.

“The same wily witch.” Zevran tapped his nose. “I’m not certain who she’s offended-”

“Who hasn’t she?” Mama narrowed her eyes and Papa shrugged. “What? The list _would_ be shorter!”

“But,” Zevran continued, “the guard isn’t too keen on letting her, or Kieran, in.”

“He’s barring a child?” Papa crossed his arms.

“He’s not pleased about the allowances with the Qunari in camp.” Zevran lowered his voice. “Few are. A thing you may want to consider.”

Mama tapped her foot a few times before sighing, loudly. “I’ll have Sten set up camp elsewhere. _They_ don’t want to be here either, you know. At least this way he can make it look like it has military value.” She turned to Papa. “And I want…”

“Josiah.” Zevran examined a nail.

 “Josiah, right, off the roster. If he comes round later to argue, just tell him how lucky he is that _Lady_ Morrigan can control her temper, now.”

“Motherhood’s quite softened the witch.” Papa laughed.

“Come on, Kiernan.” The mabari that had been snoozing under the bench crawled out on his stomach and stretched lazily before walking to stand beside Mama. She took a deep breath and held out a hand for Emery to take. “Let’s ruffle some feathers.”

* * *

Lady.... _Aunt_ Morrigan, Emery corrected in her own mind, stood petting Kiernan almost absentmindedly as she spoke to Mama. Her clothes were plain, made for travelling. Not like what she had arrived at Skyhold in, more resembling those she had most frequently worn. Regardless she was as genial as Emery remembered. Kieran matched his mother in a plain, hooded cloak, though his mood was somber. He was quiet, and looked at Emery like she was someone new.

Still, when he greeted her, it was with a smile. “Hello, Emmy.”

“Hello, Kieran. How was your trip?”

“Long. Informative.” He pulled his hood down. His hair was to his shoulders, now, and pulled into a small ponytail. “Mother said there was an incident at the Winter Palace."

“What happened?” Emery’s eyes widened. She had been hearing whispers since the Qunari came. “No one’s told me anything!”

“I’m not certain.” He admitted, draping his cloak over his arm. “I’ve written to Islen. She was there, you know? So far I’ve not gotten a word out of her about it.”

“You’ve heard from Islen?” Emery hissed, stepping in closer. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

“Ssh!” Kieran hushed her. “I don’t think we’re even allowed to be talking to her right now. The only letter I got was from the Jennies.”

Emery nodded, feeling both relieved and disappointed at once. Her friend hadn’t stopped writing, she was okay. She also couldn’t write to her! How she wished she were allowed to curse!

“How are you, Emmy?”

“Oh. Me? I’m okay.”

“You’re with your mother now, I see.” Kieran was staring, openly, at Mama.

“Yes.” Emery smiled, straightening.

“Good for you.” He nodded slightly. “Strange, I imagine.”

Emery rubbed her hands together. It had been, until it wasn’t. And she wanted to say as much, but Kieran wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at their mothers, still deep in conversation. He may not have needed a response.

“Can you show me the Circle?”

* * *

If things were supposed to feel different, Emery didn’t notice a change. Morrigan and Kieran settled into the Circle in an adjacent room and the Qunari went to establish a separate, military camp. Some of the Inquisition soldiers posted at the settlement joined them and, eventually, Sten returned. Sometimes he made the two hour journey between camps on foot every day. 

Emery missed the Quartermaster, but the training grounds stayed. And Sten let her keep the little shield, which was kind. In truth, Emery didn’t know why they were in Rivain. But she was loathe to question it. Every night she went to sleep in the same bed, with her parents nearby, and woke up looking at the same ceiling. Warm and dry and with food in her belly.

And now Kieran was here, reading the books in the Circle library and telling her what they got wrong. She wished she could get in touch with Islen. Make sure she was safe, somehow. Yet despite that, more than ever, Emery felt...settled.

 

**ISLEN**

 The three friends ate by themselves at dinner, the adults leaving to ‘discuss’ whatever it was that happened around and above their heads. Kieran's eyes looked to glow in the dark, but it was the strange light they used here, Islen was sure. All the strangeness had left Kieran when his grandmother laid hands on him. "We worried when we didn’t get your letters.”

“I’m sorry.” Islen bit her lip. She meant it, even if she couldn’t help it. “I tried.”

"Can you tell us what happened?” Emery's eyes _did_ glow, nearly as bright as Fenris'. “It must be dangerous if Messere Varric sent you here.”

“They don’t trust the Eluvian anymore.”

_They don’t trust you around the Eluvian, just say it._

“Why not?” Kieran pressed.

Islen swallowed. “During the Exalted Council...bad things.”

Her throat closed up. So she couldn’t tell her friends, either. She thought it would be easier, somehow. Maybe if she wrote it down…

“It’s okay, Islen.” Emery lay a hand on hers and she smiled shakily.

“Was it Grandmother?” Kieran leaned forward, hand tightly wrapping around her other palm. “Can you at least tell me that?”

“No!” Islen shook him off. “It wasn’t Mythal. I would tell you, wouldn’t I?” He nodded, shortly. “It was Solas.”

“Solas?” Kieran leaned back. “The elf who was painting all the time?”

Emery blinked. “The...bald one?”

Islen nodded. “He’s at the front of whatever’s happening.”

“But the Qunari were saying that their men were…” Emery looked between them. “Well, I just heard a few things.”

“I saw him at the Crossroads. He didn’t seem bad, you know?” Islen rubbed her hands on her thighs. “But he’ll kill us all.”

None of them ate that night.

* * *

Islen woke up screaming. She shouldn’t have spoken about _that_. That was it. She should have just pretended she didn’t know what the others were talking about and went about her business.

_Stick to the plan._

She had reconsidered it, briefly, with her friends around her. But the nightmares were still there, and her parents weren’t. It had to be tonight, she decided. She had taken one of Zevran’s blades (and named it Bianca the Second, in her head, out of spite). She threw the maps from Warden Aeducan’s room into her sack and headed out of the Southern gate. After all, Sten _had_ said it was poorly protected.

She was only a few feet outside the gate when she recognized the sound of footfalls behind her. For a moment, she was afraid Zevran had noticed his missing dagger, already, and turned, ready to confess. She wasn’t prepared for a sleepy-looking Emery, a little piece of wood on her chest and a dagger in her hand.

“Islen?”

“Emmy.” She hissed though it came out in a great breath. “What are you doing out there?”

“I’m on guard duty...sort of.” She hit her chest and smiled, proudly. “What are you doing?” Islen shuffled so her pack was further behind her but her friend’s eyes were sharp, in the dark. “Were you leaving?”

Islen thought of her parents, her family, in Kirkwall. She knew, if she told Emery her plan, now, she’d understand. She had been without her mother so long, she’d probably try to help.

But Islen suddenly didn’t want her to be understanding. It felt...wrong. She didn’t know why. She could whine to Zevran til she was blue in the face. Her parents had sent her away because it wasn’t safe. And they had sent her to _friends_. Emery lived awfully and lonely.

“Emmy, I’m s-”

“Hush.”

Islen gaped. She’d never heard Emery talk back before. Or interrupt for that matter. She flushed. “Look, I know you’re angry, but-”

“H _ush, Islen_.” She hissed, pushing her aside with what Islen now recognized was a tiny, adorable _shield_. “Oh, dung.”

Islen whirled around, now behind Emery, and saw what her friend had seen. A great, grey wolf, teeth bared and hackles raised. It likely wouldn’t have noticed them had Islen stayed quiet.

Dung, indeed.

“Come on, Emmy,” Islen tried to grab at her hand, “I can get us out of here.”

“Are you kidding?” She said from the corner of her mouth. “It’s staring. Right. At. Us!”

“Emmy, you don’t know what I can do!”

“You don’t know what a wolf can do!”

As if proving her point, the wolf lunged.

“Emmy!” Islen’s hands shot out and, as she had no idea what to do with them, landed somewhere in the wolf’s throat, the lyrium under her skin lit up like a beacon. This was only because, amazingly, Emery had caught the wolf’s front paws on her tiny, adorable shield and was pushing back with a well of strength Islen didn’t think capable from such a small body.

Islen could see the whites of the wolf's eyes grow large and felt its breathing quicken.

“Kill. It.” Emery’s jaw clenched.

“I…can’t.” Islen looked at her, panicked. “I can’t reach my knife, he’ll bite!”

In one moment she was waiting for Emery’s shield to break, for her own hold to slip. In the next, a hand slipped over her shoulder, removing her pack. She heard rummaging and, suddenly, there was a cry and a spray of blood.

Kieran stood on Emery’s other side, Zevran’s dagger in his hand and lodged between the wolf’s shoulder blades.

“You two can let go, now.” Kieran told them and she and Emery collapsed almost at once. When Islen sat back up, he was wiping down the dagger and setting it back in her pack. “An escape attempt?” She gazed at him warily and he sighed. “At least find me next time.”

She nodded.

“ _Emery!”_

“Ah yes,” he stood, “I brought her father. He isn't happy.”

Alistair arrived with a few guards, out of breath and, indeed, unhappy. “What in the name of Andraste are you doing out here?”

Emery's mouth was set in a firm line. She wasn't going to budge. Not even to lie. Dammit.

Islen's eyes landed on the wolf.

“Emmy killed dinner!” She pointed.

“What?” Alistair blinked, bending over to examine the animal.

There were whispers among the others, as Islen had hoped there would be.

 _A wolf? So close?_  

_Solas…_

_I don't think he'd kill a child._

_It's war. You heard what he did last time. What he's willing to do..._

Alistair ignored them, his attention on his daughter. “ _You_ did that?”

She looked suddenly shy. “Um...sort of.”

“Let's get everyone inside. At least we have a good meal…” Alistair shook his head.

“Nice distraction.” Kieran muttered.

“When you grow up between a policewoman and a card shark you pick up a unique set of skills.”

“You could have just choked it.” Kieran pointed out, as they trailed behind father and daughter.

“What? No!” Islen felt tears spring to her eyes.

“I was only saying you _could_ have.” He shrugged. “Emmy thought so too. If it comes down to her and the wolf, choke the damn wolf.”

Islen stared at him a moment longer, looked away, and nodded.

* * *

Zevran was awake when she went to ‘give’ back Bianca the Second (the true goal was to sneak it back while he wasn’t looking).

“My noble friend. What can I do for you?”

“I have something for you.” Islen kicked the dirt in front of her.

“Would that be, perhaps, something that is already mine?”

Islen rolled her eyes, and reached into her pack, careful of the sharp point of his dagger. After a while of digging she realised she need not have been as it was no longer there. When she tipped her pack over, she found it had been replaced by a stone’s weight, and the maps, too, were bits of paper, useless to her.

Looking up found her staring at the same dagger she was searching for, held in Zevran’s hand.

“I should consider thanking you for reminding me to keep my guard up even around noble children.” He grinned, tucking the dagger back into his belt

“Especially around noble children. We’re greedy.” She added.

“But the maps.” He shook his head with a tsk. “I expect an apology to the Warden.”

“Yes, Messere…” Islen blushed deeply. She had been well and truly caught, after all. “I didn't use it. Emmy killed a wolf.” Which was less true than what had actually happened, but they had to see the lie through.

“So I heard. Surprising.” He nodded.

“She was protecting me.” _That_ was the truth.

He chuckled. “That's less surprising. She’s from a protective lot.”

“I wanted to leave. I wanted to go home.” She admitted.

 “An understandable desire.”

“I can’t yet, can I?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.” He smiled and the sharp tips of his teeth showed.

Islen sat, cross-legged in front of him.

“My family left me with you.” Islen held her ankles. “That makes _you_ responsible.”

This only seemed to amuse him more.

“Can you promise to take care of me and tell me the truth?” She held out a pinky.

“My Lady,” Zevran took it with his own. “I will protect you. I will never lie to you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are my parents alive?”

“Yes.”

“Are they safe?”

“No.”

She bit her lip. “Are they together?”

“Of course.”

Islen smiled, finally letting go of his smallest digit. “Then they’ll be fine.”

“See, nothing to worry about.” He lifted a shoulder. “You should train if you want to catch up with our Emmy.”

She pulled a face. As she left the tent to find her friend, however, she felt lighter than she had in months. Her parents were alive and they were together.

With a sprinkle of luck, they didn’t need much else.

**Author's Note:**

> Wren's birthday is the day after I began posting Champion's Coffer (which was how she and I met)! She's been wanting reunion fic, that is, "When the trio (Emery, Kieran, and Islen) see one another again." so here it is :D 
> 
> Thank you, again, everyone who read and left love on the original, pushing me to finish.


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